


JeanMarco Week 2015

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Domestic Fluff, JeanMarco Week, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4617141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven small stories from seven different universes, from one very wonderful week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kids

**Author's Note:**

> These 'chapters' are actually standalone one-shots, each posted during a different day of JeanMarco Week 2015, and each set in a different au. 
> 
> This first tiny story is set in the universe of ['A Different Song'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2300711/chapters/5060960) and occurs something like ten years after the main story line wraps up.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

Years after he'd left his family home behind, after he'd begun a new life with Jean, moving from place to place all over New York and always gravitating back to the home that was by then theirs, back in California, Marco still thought a lot about his former home.

It wasn't the  _house,_  exactly. It wasn't even his parents that he missed; he still kept close contact with his sisters, and spoke to his mother when he was feeling calm enough to face conversation with her. It was the family atmosphere that he had begun to miss, having lived with no one other than Jean for nearly a decade. Whether they were in their newest loft apartment in Manhattan or back home in the sprawling house Jean's mother had left him, ‘home’ had slowly started to feel a little too large for Marco's comfort.

Jean was plenty of company, most days. They had grown used to each other's presence, and even more to dealing with each other's absence, always traveling with and without each other. Marco was still perfectly satisfied, settling into Jean's arms at night, years worth of happy memories to reflect on as they talked themselves to sleep. It wasn't boredom that Marco felt. It was something else – the nagging sense that something that was  _missing._

He might not have stopped to think about it at all, had it not been for the dreams that began just after they'd celebrated ten years together. The people they'd been friends with for many years, and those friends that they'd met along the way were all settling down. Once Jean and Marco had gotten married, it seemed they were attending someone else's ceremony every six months. And it usually wasn't long afterward that they received news that one friend or another was expecting a baby, or had decided to pursue adoption. Marco had never considered himself a  _marriage and kids_ kind of person, especially after tolerating years of his mother's bemoaning his sexuality and complaining that it would rob him (or rather, rob  _her)_ of those things. But watching friends blissfully shop for baby clothes, Marco felt an uncomfortable twist in his chest that he'd never expected.

And it followed him into his dreams.

Visions of tiny hands wrapped around his fingers, of small voices, calling him  _papai,_ of a tired child, snuggled up to an equally sleepy Jean. The images of a family of his own began to permeate his every evening, seeping into his daytime thoughts, as well. Jean had never mentioned any interest in children, so Marco didn't bring it up. He sat on his thoughts, looked away from the children's sections when they went shopping, and tried to pretend he was only happy for their friends with every birth announcement they received.

The constant denial sowed seeds of doubt in Marco. Maybe his mother had gotten to him, after all that time. Maybe her constant crying about grandchildren had burdened him with just enough guilt to consider it, especially after a holiday gathering in which Bruna led in her  _basketball team_  of children, smiling smugly as they took up an entire table. Maybe he didn't really want children. But he couldn't shake the growing feeling that he  _did._

He wanted a  _family,_ a chance to give a child the things he never had enough of. Love, support, safety - they were gifts of compassion that he wanted to shower onto his own children, to be the sort of parent he'd always wished for. He wanted a fresh start at family life, to begin again and build a full house with the man he loved. But Jean didn't seem to feel the same way, and the last thing Marco wanted was to spoil the peace their love had brought to both of their lives. They had the rest of those lives together, he told himself, and surely he would  _eventually_  work up the nerve to mention adding more plates at their table.

Until then, he resolved to dream on, hoping that they would only be dreams for a while. He had almost given up thinking about it - only letting his mind wander occasionally when conversation lulled - when Jean's second pro season hit its full swing, and they had to scratch out time every few days just to meet each other for dinner or drinks. They really were too busy, Marco reminded himself, thoughts drifting as he waited for Jean to return from talking to a nearby table of people who had pulled him aside for autographs for their son. But then Jean returned to the table and sat with a flustered sigh, a small grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he slid his hand across the table to bump against Marco's.

"So, uh - what do you think about... kids?"


	2. Mermaid Tail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted for the second day of JeanMarco Week, this small fic comes from the world of ['A Pane Between'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2465732) and was inpired by the prompt 'paint'. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

It was just a little cottage, nothing much.

With a single bedroom without so much as a door between it and the stunted hallway that led from the sitting area for privacy, it wasn't ideal for entertaining. Not that they had a lot of friends to have over; the only people either of them knew in Myrtle were Connie, Sasha, and a few of the girls Marco swam with during the summers. But their new little home was charming, all the same, a barely renovated, former vacation cottage, just a short walk from the waves that touted every amenity the two of them really needed. Not much else, but how many people could say their first place was a house by the beach? That was a phrase Jean clung to, even as they investigated the fixes the house would require.

There was definitely work to be done. The paint in most of the rooms was chipping, wallpaper peeling from the room's upper border in both the living and bedroom. The seashell-shaped fixtures on the drawers and cabinets were old, some of them cracked, broken or missing altogether. But there was still an oceanic air of cheerfulness that spilled into the place through the many wide windows, and in that light it was hard to see anything other than the many possibilities the place had, on the day of their lease signing.

It would have been silly to turn it down. By Jean's third summer living and working in Myrtle, he had grown to adore the local atmosphere, and wish he could be near the water - and near his boyfriend - all year long. When Connie's uncle had mentioned turning some old vacation properties into residential homes, he offered Connie and Jean the first crack at them, setting up a rent to own system that was lax enough in its specifications that even boys with minimum wage jobs could swing the monthly rent. Luckily, Jean would have Marco's income to balance their budget, and Marco was  _anything_  but difficult in convincing to move in together. He was packing before Jean even finished telling him about the place.

The first couple of weeks spent scraping paint from walls and tearing down old wallpaper was almost enough to leave both of them questioning it, though. They were living together - when did the fun start? When would things be even  _remotely_  romantic? Their first days in their new home were nothing but work, both of them too tired by sunset to even talk, let alone take walks on the beach or make love to the sounds of the tides drifting through the open windows. But he didn't dare listen to suggestions that they take a break; there was still so much to do, so much work that the house needed. It was nothing that Jean had dreamt it would be, and by the end of their first month staying together, he began to wonder if he'd made a mistake.

Marco's offer for them to head to a hardware store together on the first Saturday they both had off all month wasn't helping. Jean wanted nothing more than to lie sprawled out on the couch with the air conditioning on full blast, after a morning of patching holes and prodding at plumbing. But Marco pleaded, and Jean was not strong enough to resist big brown eyes and a quivering lip. He pulled on a shirt and shoes, and joined Marco on his trip.

When they arrived, Marco meandered toward the paint section, lazily browsing large displays of samples until he seemed to find what he was looking for. Jean let his mind wander as he propped himself against the steel beam of a sturdy rack behind him. He eyed Marco, looked him up and down, and was reminded of the first time he'd seen him. It was the image of Marco's gorgeous smile and beautiful body, swirling past Jean behind a solid foot of glass. He remembered the way his heart used to flutter when Marco would look his way, the way it would threaten to  _stop_  when they would run their hands along either side of the tank, eyes locked as Jean's face burned. He recalled the way he felt the first time they spoke in person, the way Marco's soft, shy voice was the icing on an absolutely irresistible cinnamon roll of a human being.

He remembered falling in  _love_  with Marco, wanting to be beside him at every opportunity, and – even watching him do something as trivial as picking out paint colors - it seemed to happen all over again. Marco turned back to show him something, his face lighting up at the way Jean was obviously staring, and Jean couldn't contain himself. He moved forward, wrapped arms around Marco's waist, and pressed his face into the bend of his neck and shoulder. Marco still smelled faintly sweet like he always had, still felt warm under Jean's lips as he peppered quiet kisses across freckled skin. He was still the same beautiful boy Jean had fallen for in a latex tail, and he was even prettier on two feet. Marco smiled like the sun was rising in front of him, and with his chest too tight for the blissful swelling of his heart, Jean reasoned that maybe it was.

After turning in his arms and taking a moment to kiss him properly, Marco held up a strip of paper with a swatch of color, raising an eyebrow in suggestion. Jean looked at it, a grin pulling at his lips. It was the same shade of aqua blue that had been Marco's calling card, the summer that they'd first met. It was the sea foam color that Jean always matched to his boyfriend, a dazzling contrast to his warm, brown skin. And it was the color that Marco wanted for their walls, a serene shade for everything from the kitchen to the bedroom, and Jean couldn't have voiced his agreement enthusiastically enough if he'd tried. He nodded and read the name of the color aloud, reaching for a nearby gallon of paint with the same label.

"Mermaid Tail Turquoise."

There was a wordless agreement, a quiet exchange of laughter before they left the store, three gallons of matching paint in hand, heading for the home that Jean was finally excited about. When they got there, they left the large cans sitting just inside the front door, forgotten for the moment as they made their way down the tiny hallway, shuffling together as they only stopped kissing long enough to peel shirts up over each other's heads on their way to their small bedroom.

It still needed work. It was still not the perfect little house that Jean wanted it to be. But Marco was there, to paint the walls a seaside blue with him, and that was enough to make him feel at home. There would be time to patch and time to paint.

_Later._


	3. Hand to Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted for day three of JeanMarco Week, this small story is from the world of ['Le Raconteur'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1566875/chapters/3325130) and was inspired by the prompt of the title's same name.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

Marco loved Jean's hands.

He kept that mostly to himself, though. It was outwardly obvious that Jean was enamored with Marco, from his lovely voice to his glowing skin and dazzling smile. Marco was the center of attention, anywhere he went, and he had more of Jean's attention than anyone else's. That was no secret. But Marco's quiet obsession with Jean's hands was more subtle.

It was a lingering stare as Jean's fingers traced patterns across his illuminated skin, or a meaningful glance every few seconds as Jean worked on his latest sketch, the shadows of his artwork smudged across his pale hands. They were hands that could create something beautiful out of nothing, hands that held Marco's world together when it threatened to shake apart. Jean's hands were unceremoniously brilliant, quietly beautiful in their strength and skill. They captured and kept Marco's attention, one of his favorite features of his boyfriend's body.

Of course  _everything_  about Jean was irresistible to Marco. They were drawn to each other on a higher plane than either of them had control of, but even outside of that connection, Jean left Marco breathless on more occasions than he could recount. It was funny, the way that Jean always assumed that Marco was the one doing the charming, when all Jean had to do was curl his fingers around Marco's wrist and pull, and Marco would have followed him anywhere he led. He was content, as long as he had Jean's hand in his.

By the time they had been together for two years, Jean's fingers intertwined with his felt entirely natural for Marco. When they weren't working, they were together, alternating who stayed at which apartment by the week or sometimes by their mood. Marco kept a drawer of Jean's things at his home, and both of their beds felt a little too large without the other beside them. So perhaps it was also only natural that Marco had begun to envision holding Jean's hand in the future - holding his hand  _forever._

They had talked about it a few times. Moving in together, marriage, making their relationship the permanent fixture that it already felt like. But Jean hadn't made any sort of move, despite seeming completely onboard with the idea. Maybe he was still unsure, or perhaps he was simply waiting for something. Marco didn't want that something to be him; one afternoon while Jean was still at work, he slipped into a small jewelry shop in the downtown square, and made a decision.

He hoped it wasn't entirely obvious. Marco was never one to get anxious before speaking to a crowd, but that warm, muggy August evening, he was filled with nervous energy. What if he embarrassed Jean -  _what if Jean said no?_ His doubts were almost enough to convince him to change his mind entirely, but Jean was settled beside him - stretched out on their favorite blanket as he usually was - and the sight of him there bolstered Marco's confidence. He started his storytelling for the night, hoping the finale would go as planned.

The tales he shared that evening were of princesses turned monsters, warriors turned traitors, and friends who became lovers just a moment too late. More drama and dreamscapes than horror, his stories had the audience  _swooning,_ Jean included, as he watched Marco's eyes fluctuate between shades of red and brilliant brown. When he'd finished his final story - the crowd still clamoring for more - Marco offered one small encore.

He told the tale of two lovers, separated by centuries. He warned of wasted time in lives previous, of making the most of second chances when they were presented, and assured his audience that many years later, the lovers were reunited, determined to make a life together from the ashes of the one they'd lost. Jean was grinning, aglow with adoration, all directed at Marco and his words. Marco took his smile as a final reassurance and reached into the pocket of his dress shirt, offering a small, velvet box to him, in full view of every spectator. Jean's eyes widened, his mouth falling open. Marco swallowed his nerves and cleared his throat.

"Second chances are for taking, and some hands are meant to be held forever. Would you do me that favor, love? Will you marry me, Jean?"

Immediately the crowd bubbled with gasps and hushed cheers, and for a moment Marco felt panic sinking low in his chest, as he watched Jean process the question in front of dozens of strangers. A wordless nod was the first real answer he received, followed shortly thereafter by Jean all but  _tackling_  him backward onto the blanket, people loosing their excitement at last and breaking into raucous applause around them. A few moved to leave, but Marco wasn't really concerned about anyone he might have offended. He was too busy looking up at the flushed, overjoyed face of his  _fiancé,_ as Jean finally found his voice to whisper, "I will."

People hung around longer than usual that evening, congratulating Marco and Jean and prodding them with questions about when they'd get married, where they'd hold their ceremony, and a dozen other things they hadn't even had a moment to think about. Marco politely answered with the truth - they didn't know, yet - and shook every hand offered before finally slipping away from view of the crowd, pulling Jean after him.

They didn't even make it home before celebrating, coming just shy of making love in Marco's car without ever leaving the parking lot. But they kept themselves together enough that Marco could get them home, not even bothering to ask Jean if he wanted to stay the night. There were many questions they would have to answer soon, about what they would do, and where they would go, together. They had a life to build, after all.

It was all part of their story, still waiting to be told. Now they had forever together, to do just that. In the meantime, Marco threaded his own fingers through Jean's, and enjoyed the simple feeling of his favorite hand to hold.


	4. Good Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted for the fourth day of JeanMarco week, this one-shot comes from the world of ['Pins & Needles'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760788) and is inspired by the prompt, 'call my name'. 
> 
> NOTE: This chapter includes references to/mentions of blood, needles, illness and hospitals. Nothing too graphic, though!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

Marco had an embarrassing habit of talking in his sleep.

He'd first discovered it at childhood sleepovers, his mind overtired and overloaded as he drifted off to sleep, leaving him chattering snippets of his dreaming thoughts aloud. It was a good laugh for his friends, then. It was much less amusing once he was an adult.

His parents often jokingly threatened to make him sleep in the garage on his more talkative nights. He would sometimes sit, bolt upright in the slim hours of the early morning, all but shouting whatever had crossed his mind in sleep. It was always worse after a stressful day. Distressing the people around him didn't make things any better.

It should've have been an easy assumption that it would happen when he ended up in the hospital. Even after he'd been admitted several times - owing to his horrible regimen of self care for his diabetes - sleeping in the starched, sterile beds made him uncomfortable in a multitude of ways. Falling head over heels for the hot head nurse only complicated things. The last person he wanted to witness his little problem was Jean.

But that, too, was only a matter of time.

They'd been seeing each other outside of the hospital for a few months when Marco slipped up again, forgetting to eat for an entire day as he studied for finals. A quick trip in an ambulance and a good lecture from his boyfriend's coworkers followed quickly, and then he was admitted, shackled by bleached white blankets and scratchy sheets. At least Jean was off for the night, so Marco could embarrass himself in front of someone slightly less important.

Struggling to sleep that night, Marco thought about Jean. He thought about the way Jean cared for people - for  _him_  - despite his outward surliness. He thought about the first note Jean had left him, with his number and the chance to take things further between them, and the way his heart had nearly leapt from his chest when he read it. And he thought about how perfect things had been since then, how wonderful Jean was when he wasn't snarking at someone in scrubs. Jean was Marco's favorite thing to think about before falling asleep, and his first thought greeting the day.

Marco  _loved_  Jean. But he still hadn't found the right moment to let him in on that information.

He swept that frustration under the bed as he finally managed to drift off for the night, the sound of beeping machines and shuffling feet making rounds in the halls a strangely familiar lullaby to his ears. His mind swam with weird renditions of the things he'd seen and done that day, visions of hungering in a dessert and wandering the halls of a ghostly, abandoned hospital dueling for his mental screen time. Between them, he was left shaking in his sleep, aware that he was alone but desperately wishing he wasn't. When he felt hands clasping his shoulders, shaking him awake, he realized that the shouting he had been doing in his dreams was very real. He tried but failed to keep himself from calling out again, his frightened gasp shaped around his boyfriend's name. 

_"Jean!"_

To his shock and confusion, Jean answered, sitting in front of him, fingers still clenching his shoulders.

"Sweetheart,  _what?!"_

Marco froze, staring back at him, wide eyed and melting inside from the panic he felt. He shook his head, unable to answer for fear of crying, overwhelmed. Jean didn't laugh at him. He pulled a hard frown - perhaps to keep from crying himself - and pulled Marco into a rough, insistent hug.

"You scared the hell outta me; I came by to check on you and as soon as I got in the room you were talking in your sleep." He pulled back to look at Marco, to squeeze his shoulders and scan him with his eyes, just to be sure he was alright. "You sounded so scared. What's wrong?"

"Just... a bad dream," Marco mumbled, reaching for one of the unyielding pillows to slam his face into. "Sorry I scared you. I... I talk in my sleep. Sometimes."

"I'm just glad you're alright." Jean replied, no trace of laughter in his voice. He trailed a hand over the back of Marco's head, down his neck and his back, fingers tapping a gentle rhythm as he went. "Do you want me to stay for a bit, or should I scoot and let you get back to sleep?"

"Stay!" Marco wheezed, feeling himself furiously blush before burying his face deeper into the dent he'd made in the pillow. "If you want to, I mean."

"Of course I want to, nerd." Jean laughed, but it still didn't feel like the teasing Marco was expecting. He laid some things that had been sitting beside him on the bed onto the small chair across from it, and then returned his full attention to Marco. "Why wouldn't I wanna stay with you?"

"I don't know." Marco shrugged. "The sleep talking thing is pretty annoying. I'm... I don't usually tell people about it. I'm embarrassed."

"Well you shouldn't be," Jean said flatly. "It happens to a lot of people, usually because of stress or illness or whatever. You're not weird." He reached for Marco's hands, squeezing them until they stopped fidgeting. "If anything, it's kinda cute."

Marco could feel the slight heat in his face rise to a boil, covering it with a pillow again until he felt less like he was on fire. Jean patiently moved it away, scooting up beside him until their hips were pressed together on one side. Marco buried his face in Jean's shirt collar instead, Jean softly chuckling as he carded fingers through dark, messy hair.

"I'm not gonna make fun of you for totally normal shit you can't help," he assured Marco. "Or even super  _abnormal_  shit you  _can_  help, like the fact that you wear sweatshirts and flip flops together all year 'round."

"It's  _comfortable."_  Marco pouted. Jean just laughed.

"Right. Well, like I was tryin' to say, I'm not gonna make fun of you for sleep talking. Especially since you were yelling for me." He smiled and leaned in to press his forehead gently against Marco's temple. "What were you dreaming about, anyway?"

"Scary stuff," Marco shuddered. "Guess I just wished you were there with me."

"Would've been if I coulda been, you know." Jean nosed along the side of Marco's face, pressing a quick kiss beside Marco's ear. "But I'm here, now. Is that good enough?"

"Good enough," Marco smiled, leaning into Jean's attentive touch. He drew a deep breath and whispered, voice trembling, "I love you."

There wasn't a moment of hesitation. Jean grinned wider, pressing another kiss to Marco's face before giving his lips the same attention. "Love you too."

Part of Marco wanted to be upset that the first time he'd gathered up the nerve to admit to his feelings for a Jean had been in a dark hospital room, but the way Jean hummed happily in response made it impossible to care. He loved Marco, too. That was  _more_  than good enough.

After a little more teasing and a lot more kissing, Marco finally found his need for sleep again, and drifted off under the care of his favorite nurse, resting just a few feet away. His sleep was peaceful then, knowing that all he needed to do if he was frightened again was call Jean's name.

And he would be there.


	5. One Way or Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted for day five of JeanMarco Week, this snippet comes from the land of ['A Fairy Tale'](http://archiveofourown.org/series/124008) and was inspired by two prompts, 'apologies' and 'tear-stained'. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \--

It wasn't supposed to become an argument.

Jean wasn't even sure if it could be called that. He'd said a few things that had been bothering him a little too much for a little too long, and suddenly he and Marco were snapping at each other. The next thing he knew, he was slamming a window closed behind Marco as he flitted away, unfazed by the fact that in his human-like form, people could easily spot him doing so. He was too upset to bother shrinking back down, more upset than Jean had ever seen him.

It wasn't supposed to be that way.

When the light of day began slipping away over the edge of the horizon and Marco still had not returned, Jean went looking for him. Walking along the cobbled stone path that wound between the cottages of his aunt's small resort, he was fairly certain he wouldn't find him. But he wanted to be sure before he ventured out in the forest. It could be a little frightening, alone at night.

But that's where he had to go. He made his way past the outermost line of trees, his cell phone on its brightest setting, held out in front of him like a lamp, and Marco's name falling quietly from his lips. When he saw a subtle glow, emanating from a small clearing a few yards away, he followed its light. The closer he got, the more fireflies he spotted, congregating at the clearing. They created a cloud of soft, summery light, and in the middle of the multitude was Marco.

He didn't look up when Jean approached him. It wasn't that he didn't notice him; Marco's senses were far more acute than any human's, and Jean knew that. It was that he didn't  _want_  to notice him, didn't want to talk, and that was a whole lot worse than being overlooked.

For a moment, Jean hovered, not sure what to say or do.

"Can I sit with you?" He finally asked, leaning against a nearby tree. Marco nodded, almost imperceptible in the low light of evening.

Jean found a seat on a wide, flat rock, just a few feet from where Marco was perched on a larger one. He sat, fidgeting for a moment, trying to think of what to say to turn Marco's face toward his, to grab his attention long enough to start making amends. But Marco spoke first.

"I wish I could change things."

It was a simple statement, that might not have made much sense, or carried much weight had that not been  _precisely_  what they'd argued about hours earlier. Jean had been bemoaning the confines of his mortal life, a joke that quickly escalated into Marco hissing about 'reality checks', and reminding him that at least he had a  _normal_  life. When Jean countered that Marco had an amazing life - an  _immortal_  life, that would out-span his by ages - it seemed to hit a nerve that he hadn't known was exposed, somewhere in Marco's mind. That had led to the two of them shouting, more at their frustrations over the ways their lives didn't quite match up than at each other. But the damage was done, feelings were hurt, and scooting a little closer to where he sat, Jean noticed that tears had fallen on the borrowed shirt Marco was wearing, even hours after their argument. Marco sniffed, wiping at his eyes.

"I wish I could give you immortality. I wish I could give mine up, so I wouldn't ever have to know a world without you. But I can't." He curled in on himself, wings following suit as he tucked them under his arms and pulled the ends of them up to his face like a blanket. "I can't make us fit together any better than we do. I can't make us perfect."

"I never said we had to be." Jean leaned in, hugging his own knees as he edged a little closer to Marco. "I never said I wanted anything to be perfect. I just want  _you."_

Marco tugged at the ends of his wings, sighing. "But you were right. I have this amazing thing, this immortal existence and I can't share more than a few decades of it with you. I'm the lucky one, but it's impossible to see it that way." He dragged the back of his hand across his face, wiping at his eyes again. "I want you forever. I'm just being really selfish, I guess."

"No,  _I_  was being selfish," Jean countered. "You're right - I have a normal life, and I can do things without worrying about being seen or whatever. And I may not live forever, but I get to have you as long as I do live, so I'm the one that's lucky." He wriggled over to sit on Marco's rock beside him, a hand gently trailing from the place where his wing met his spine, all the way down to the fluttering end, still fisted in Marco's fingers. "That is - if you still want me around after all this."

On a soft gasp, Marco's lips parted, shock and something like offense flashing across his face for a moment. "Of  _course_  I want you," he insisted, "I want you  _forever,_  for my whole life." He let go of his wings, let them stretch above and behind him, before dropping one of them to drape across Jean's shoulders. "That's my problem, I guess."

Jean nodded, not so much in agreement, as understanding. Facing his own mortality, and the limitations that Marco's existence put on their relationship was something they had both been avoiding for far too long. But it didn't have to spell the end for them. If anything, sitting there beside him on the forest floor - fireflies buzzing around them like stars, drifting toward the earth - it felt like something was about to begin. He looped an arm around Marco's waist and pulled their bodies close.

"I can't promise you that I'll be around for your whole life," Jean conceded. "But I can promise you  _my_  whole life." He took Marco's hand, lacing their fingers as he breathed steadily, willing both of their hearts to fall into a calm, peaceful rhythm. "My life is short, and fragile. But it's yours, if you want it. Every single minute of it." He placed a kiss on the back of Marco's hand, his knuckles, his wrist, before finally leaning over to press his lips against Marco's glowing cheek. Marco touched the place where Jean had kissed him, a tiny pink flower blooming across his skin, followed by several more as a blush lit his face.

"I... Do you  _mean_  that?" There was uncertainty in his voice, an unsure wavering. But there was also hope, the promise of joy, just behind the layers of anxiety. His wings fluttered behind him. Jean smiled at them, and then at Marco, himself.

"Yes, I mean it. Marco. I mean - I moved to Scotland for you. I took all the plans I had back home and dumped 'em in the trash so I could come start fresh, here with you, because  _this_  is the life I want. I wanna be with you, for as long as I can. If that's a few more days, a few more years, or  _decades,_ I'll be happy, as long as you're with me until you can't be anymore."

"I can  _always_  be with you," Marco said quickly, taking both of Jean's hands. "I  _will_  always be with you. And when you're not with me anymore, you'll  _still_  be, because my heart will go with you, wherever that may be." He returned Jean's kisses to the backs of his hands, pressing his lips to skin between promises made only to Jean. _"Forever,"_ he murmured. "One way or another."

_"Forever,"_ Jean repeated, and pulled Marco into his lap for a proper kiss. The sun was coming up before they left the forest, before they stopped whispering vows to each other that only they could make sense of.

_"One way or another."_


	6. Clearly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally created for day six of JeanMarco Week, this story is actually a prequel to the ['Number Seven'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2217177) series, picking up shortly before the original fic begins. It was inspired (loosely) by two prompts, 'summer lovin'' and 'raindrops'. 
> 
> NOTE: This fic does contain references to and discussion of first-time sex, but no actual smut is present, so this one is safe for everyone to enjoy! :)
> 
> \--

Driving a familiar route on what was shaping up to be a rainy, dreary day, Jean glanced into his rear view mirror and caught sight of his face, at rest. He was frowning, despite being happy about where he going. Or at least, he  _thought_  he was happy. He looked back at the road, sighing as he let his mind wander faster than he could drive.

Usually when a person does something, over and over for a while, they start to get the hang of it. Time lends itself to understanding, or at least that was the explanation Jean had reasoned out whenever quiet questions arose in his head. But after seven months of  _something_  between he and Marco, there was still no name for what they were, and still no better grasp on it, on Jean's part.

Things between them were as unclear as the cloudy skies he drove beneath.

They weren't  _dating_  - were they? Did Marco  _want_  to be? Jean was famously bad at reading people - even people he was making out with.

Not that kissing Marco cleared things up at all. If anything, it just fogged Jean's brain until  _nothing_  made sense. Nothing, except doing whatever he had to, to get more of those soft, sweet lips against his.

And Marco had the most beautiful smile, when those lips weren't busy. It made the moments that he wasn't kissing Jean much more tolerable. Jean would do anything to make him smile, make him laugh, see his face light up the way it always seemed to whenever the two of them were together. Was that because of Jean, or just because Marco was  _made_  of fucking sunshine? Jean couldn't be sure.

When it came to whatever he had with Marco, he couldn't be sure of anything.

He couldn't just ask him out. Jean was still technically in the closet, though anyone that knew him was at least partially aware of the fact that he'd never even  _attempted_  dating a girl. Cheerleading didn't do his secret a whole lot of favors, either, nor did his obvious mooning over his small school's star quarterback, but that didn't mean he was ready to come out to anyone. He wasn't openly gay amongst his classmates, and he wasn't actually even sure Marco was gay. They’d never even discussed it. But if Jean was just a phase, just a lingering experiment, Marco was sure taking his time with it. And Jean was of no mind to hurry him along.

Still, he wished there was some way he could put a mark of legitimacy on their relationship. Marco wasn't his  _boyfriend,_  so what were they?  _Classmates_  didn't spend hours on the phone at every given chance.  _Acquaintances_  didn't hold hands under blankets on dark, crowded buses.  _Friends_  didn't usually sneak off after football games to make out in parked cars or beneath bleachers, but after their first shy, hesitant kiss a few months earlier, it was like floodgates had opened, and all they could think to do with every minute of alone time was kiss each other breathless.

When they started messing around, Jean was caught in the two-way pull of conflicted feelings. On one hand, he  _wanted_  Marco, so much so that every touch of Marco's skin sent warmth pulsing through him. He wanted to see more of Marco,  _touch_  more of Marco,  _be_  touched by Marco, and to always be the reason for the soft sighing sounds that Marco made when their hands were on each other's bodies. Jean wanted everything Marco would give him, and he was willing to give everything back.

But did Marco feel the same way?

Jean was terrified of giving more of himself than he'd meant to, and of being left standing alone, of Marco leaving when he tired of the nameless game they were playing. Everything he knew of Marco stood in opposition to that ever happening, but Jean knew that people could surprise, and that people could change. And he didn't want to let himself go in the hands of someone who would drop him if he did.

Marco made him feel safe, though. Wrapped in strong arms and held by hands that were calloused and rough but gentle in their soft caress, Jean felt untouchable. Even by his own insecurities. He was safe, with Marco.

So when they found themselves in Jean's bed, at home alone one summer afternoon while Jean's mother was working out of town, it wasn't really so strange that things got away from them quickly, both of them half dressed before Jean even managed to tug the blankets loose from the corners where they were neatly tucked. He and Marco quickly made a mess of his bed and each other, scattering bite marks and bruises that would fade before anyone saw them. But all at once, things came to a stop, and Marco stared back at him, unsure.

Jean swallowed.

_This was it,_ he told himself. The doubts he was sure Marco had about them, surfacing. He inhaled sharply, holding his breath, waiting for Marco to drop the bomb. To drop  _him._

Marco did no such thing.

He sat up, settled on his heels, knees bent as he wrung his hands in his lap. Jean couldn't remember ever seeing him so nervous. It was unsettling, but also undeniably adorable.

"Jean, I... I really want to have sex with you, right now." As soon as the words awkwardly tumbled from Marco's mouth, Jean was nodding, unable to stop himself. But Marco shook his head, seemingly dissatisfied with that response. "Not just sex - I want to  _make love_  to you. I know that sounds really cheesy, but I do. I want everything to be special and nice, because I've... I've never actually done that with anyone, but I wanna do it with you." He heaved a sigh, like he was finally free of a weight that had burdened his shoulders. Still, he was obviously nervous. He looked back at Jean, nibbling at the inside of his lip as he scooted closer, taking his hand. "But I don't wanna do it until you're ready, and only if  _you_  want it, too.”

Jean stared at him, speechless. Outside, the soft sound of rain beginning to fall filled the silence between them as he tried to think of what to say. He was genuinely stunned. Marco offering that much of himself - more than he'd ever offered to anyone else - was like something out of Jean's dreams, and it made forming a coherent sentence in response feel impossible. But keeping quiet risked Marco thinking that he didn't return his sentiments. He took a deep breath, and nodded again.

"I want that, too," he replied honestly. "But I... I know this probably sounds stupid, but I kind of want to know what's going on, first. With us, I mean. What...  _are_  we?"

Marco bit down harder on his lips, shrugging. "What do you  _want_  us to be?"

"Dating." Jean answered, before he could talk himself out of it. "I wanna be your  _boyfriend._  I want you to be mine. Even if we don't tell anybody, _I_ wanna know we're a thing." He realized he was still holding Marco's hand, squeezing it. He loosened his hold to pull away, but Marco kept their fingers locked. Jean leaned in a little closer, to whisper, "But only if that's what  _you_  want."

A wide grin split Marco's face, bubbling into laughter that had Jean panicking for a moment before Marco pulled him into his lap. "I'd  _love_  that," he beamed, nosing along Jean's neck and collarbone, still grinning like mad. "I just didn't think that was what  _you_  wanted, or else I would've...” He chuckled, a little louder. “We're idiots, you know that?"

Jean snorted, relief coursing through him as he melted against Marco. "Can't even talk about shit like adults, either of us. Clearly we were made for each other."

At that, Marco's jubilant smile melted into something calmer, more sultry as he settled Jean squarely on his hips and nipped at the sharp line of his jaw.  _"Clearly."_

It never took long to talk Jean out of his clothes, but that stormy afternoon, the two of them took their time, learning as much about what made the other laugh and smile as they did about making each other feel good. Their first attempt at making love was largely unsuccessful, but curled up in blankets listening to the rain, and giggling about how poorly it all went still somehow felt like a win. They would have time to get it right.

That day, all Jean really cared about was knowing that Marco felt the same way he did.

Clearly.


	7. Jump In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lastly, this fic was posted for day seven of JeanMarco week, inspired by the prompt 'gifts', and comes from the world of ['Swim Trunks'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2088837), and is set in the future, after the boys have finished college, etc.
> 
> Hope you guys have enjoyed my efforts for this year's JeanMarco Week!
> 
> \--

"Jean, Marco - look over here!"

Cameras flashed and people cheered, shouts ranging from the romantic to the raunchy as Jean and Marco tore their eyes away from each other's smiling faces to wave for them again. After a few seconds of prim and proper posed photos, Marco saw his chance and took it, scooping up a forkful of cake and smashing it against the side of Jean's face. Without missing a beat, Jean retaliated, maybe only to hide the flustered blush that rose to his cheeks to match the pearlescent frosting smeared across them.

It wasn't his idea to have a big wedding. It wasn't his idea to have one at all, really. He was fine with the thought of the two of them just taking a trip to the local courthouse, putting their intentions in writing and slipping rings on each other's fingers. But Marco wanted the whole nine yards, and Jean's new in-laws did, too. So the compromise was Jean choosing the location.

Marco's family only balked a little bit when he settled on a hotel, there in town.

In his own defense, Jean assured them that it was a very nice hotel. With a glittering ballroom on the second floor and an outdoor pavilion that led out onto the mosaic glass of the poolside area, it was beautiful and elegant and everything they hadn't expected him to go for. He kept to himself that it also had a grandiose honeymoon suite, and that he had very  _specific_  plans as to how to best make use of that room. That would part of his surprise for Marco.  _Later._

For the time being, they stood behind a lavishly decorated dessert table, beaming at family and friends gathered around, waiting for the excitement to settle enough that they could enjoy their cake without so many eyes on them. That peace never really came, but they had their cake anyway, unable to stop themselves smiling at each other from across the small distance between them where they sat.

They'd come a long way, from the confused, jittery boys they'd been when they first fell in love. But never once in the almost ten years since then had they doubted for a second that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. It was almost an assumption from the start, if not a foolish one at first. Now, sitting next to each other, with rings on their fingers and hyphens in their last names, they could finally relax in the knowledge that everyone else would see just how right they'd always been about one another.

It was time to celebrate. Which - by Marco's family's standards - meant it was time for gifts.

Jean had rolled his eyes a bit at the thought of registering for things before they tied the knot. Who makes a list and just  _expects_  people to buy from it? He spent a whole three months referring to it as their 'letter to Santa'. But he couldn't keep the smile off his face as he watched excitedly Marco unwrap the things they'd received, everything from towels to tea sets to bottles of wine that were almost too nice to waste drinking. Almost. Maybe one of them would make an appearance later that night, as part of his grand plans for their first evening together as each other's husbands.

For the time being, he was glad to pass out handshakes and hugs, along with his thanks to their guests, if only because it made Marco so happy to see him doing it.

With music playing and a handful of guests still lingering on the pavilion where they'd held their reception, Marco and Jean took a quiet walk around the pretty, tiled surface of the poolside lounge. It was dimly lit, but the faint light was amplified by its own reflection off the water, a reflection that lit Marco's face beautifully as they strolled, hand in hand.

In Jean's mind, it harkened back to the first time he'd let himself feel for Marco, that first night when their chemistry had exploded into a violent reaction of roaming hands and hammering hearts. Even years later, the taste and smell of chlorinated water had a different effect on him than it did in most people. For Jean, it smelled like the beginning of attraction, tasted of first kisses and hesitant confessions. Walking around the pool with Marco on the evening of their wedding just seemed fitting. When Marco plopped down beside it and pulled off his shoes, rolling his pants up enough to drop his feet into the water, Jean joined him without a moment's convincing.

"Pretty here, huh?" Marco smiled, looking out across the gently rippling water, starlight beginning to twinkle in reflections on its surface. Jean slid a hand over one of his and looped their fingers, unashamedly staring at Marco's beautiful, glowing face.

"Mhm. Told you it would be."

Marco turned and raised an eyebrow at him, then shook his head at Jean's confident, lovestruck grin.

"Yeah, yeah. Should've known you'd pick a place with a pool." He slid an arm behind Jean, hooked it around his middle and pulled them closer together. Jean dropped his head to Marco's shoulder, sighing,  _content._

"That much you can always count on. Pools, and me making an ass of myself. That's what you have to look forward to forever, sir."

"And I'm  _so_  looking forward to it," Marco grinned, kissing the top of Jean's head. Things were quiet between them for a while, just the sounds of their slow, sated breathing and the gentle splashing of water against their feet. Maybe too quiet, Jean thought. When he leaned over to whisper in Marco's ear, he could hardly hide the mischievous laughter in his voice.

"Jump in with me."

Marco turned to face him with a sharp snap of his head, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, almost incredulous. "Jump in? The pool?! Jean, we're in  _suits._  These aren't even ours, they're rented."

"So we lose our deposit, big deal." Jean smirked, tugging at Marco's fingers. Marco huffed, frowning at the water, scrabbling for a better excuse. When he couldn't come up with one, he shook his head, trying to sound firm.

"We are grown men, Jean. We can't do things like that in public, especially not with our entire families here." But even as he said it, Jean could feel him beginning to give. He bumped his shoulder against Marco's and snickered.

"Yeah. We're grown. Which means we can do whatever the hell we want, right? And I've been good all day, wearin' this suit and posing for pictures with dessert all over my face. Now I wanna jump in this pool, and I wanna drag my hot-ass husband in with me. You wanna play ball, or do I have to push you in?"

Marco closed his eyes and sighed, and Jean knew he'd won. What he wasn't expecting was for Marco to open his eyes again, grin like the devil and chuckle, "Not if I push you, first," before doing just that, shoving Jean into the cool water without a second's pause.

Once he was there, Jean heard a loud splash beside him, muffled by the water as he moved back to the surface. Splashing out into the warm night air and shaking enough water from his hair to get it off of his face, Jean smiled, throwing his arms around Marco's neck as soon as he'd surfaced beside him.

"You ass," he laughed, and Marco cupped hands under his thighs to hold him in place as Jean looped his legs around his waist. Marco shrugged, pressing a quick kiss to Jean's forehead.

"You liked it."

"Always," Jean snorted, before capturing Marco's lips in a real kiss. It tasted like chlorine and cake and the promise of forever, and Jean lost count of how many more times he kissed him before they finally dragged themselves - soaked suits, and all - out of the pool, and headed back to collect their gifts, and celebrate their first of an endless number of nights, together.


End file.
